The surfers around Point Dume and Topanga Beach still talk about Paul Bourne around their night fires and no one uses the clifftop for parties anymore. And electric wine lost its popularity for good that summer at Malibu.
Lieutenant Bourne shifted position on his sandbag perch. The newly formed tear leaving his eye was pushed back into his sideburn by the wind coming from Cambodia. Paul stayed sitting on the comfortable sandbag ledge 42
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until the cool morning sun began to show its light through the treetops on the ridge east of camp. Paul slipped down and walked quietly through the kitchen and down the hallway to his room. He stretched out on his canvas cot and folded his arms behind his head. Sleep still wouldn’t come. Morning would bring the return of LeBlonde and he would accept the mission.
The sound of muffled footsteps against the cement floor in the hall alerted Paul and his hand slipped down to his pistol. A light tap echoed in the room followed by Mills’s soft whisper: “Sir, are you up yet?”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you in the kitchen for breakfast.” Paul reached for his shaving gear on the wooden ledge above his bed as he stood up and went into the shower room attached to the rear of the teamhouse. He brushed the nightly accumulation of dead bugs from the ledge below the mirror and placed his shaving gear on the shelf that had been painted an infantry blue by the first A-Team in the camp.
When Paul joined Sergeant Mills at the breakfast table he was feeling wide awake.
“Have trouble sleeping last night?” Mills smiled, knowing most people couldn’t sleep very well when they were waiting to go out on a mission. “I couldn’t sleep very much myself. Maybe this mission will give me a chance to get even with dope pushers.”
“Where are you from, back in the States?” Paul changed the subject. He sensed that the conversation could get very heavy, and he wanted to avoid talking about anything that would take his mind off the upcoming mission.
“A small town in Michigan. You wouldn’t have heard of it—most of the people living around there are part-time farmers. We live on a farm near Bridgeport, just outside of Saginaw. Dad’s got a job with General Motors at their steering-gear plant during the night shift and he farms during the day.
The poor guy works his ass off. The family was starting to do a lot better until my little brother got involved in his high school’s drug cult.”
Mr. P brought Sergeant Mills a plate piled high with mounds of fried rice and powdered eggs surrounded by three thick slices of fried Spam.
Paul cocked his head to one side, trying to recognize the sound he heard coming from the east side of the camp. “What’s that?”
“You got me, Lieutenant,” Mills talked around a mouthful of food, “It sounds like a jet coming in.” He leaned back in his chair so that he could look out the screened window that faced the 3400-foot runway the First Cavalry Division engineers had built for the Special Forces Camp during the invasion of the Ia Drang Valley. A Lear jet’s wheels touched down on the laterite runway and the aircraft raced ahead of a large red dust cloud.
“You’re right. A jet just touched down.”
Mister LeBlonde was standing on the top step of the aircraft waiting for them when the two Special Forces soldiers pulled up next to the jet in the camp’s beat-up jeep.
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“You all ready to leave?”
“Hell, no . . . We have to go back and get our stuff. We weren’t expecting you so early . . .” Paul felt like a fool being caught unprepared.
Sergeant Mills threw the gear shift in reverse and spun the wheels, throwing a small cloud of dust against the silver aircraft. They covered the distance back to the camp in near-record time. Paul was jumping out of the front seat before the dull green vehicle came to a complete stop and entered the teamhouse ten feet ahead of Mills. Paul strapped his NVA ammunition pouch against his chest and balanced his CAR-15 in the palm of his hand, hefting it slightly to see if he had a full magazine in it. Mills tapped on his door as he raced back down the hallway to the still-running jeep. Captain Pellam watched through the cracks in the bamboo shade covering his window. He wanted to join his men, but a deep sense of self-preservation told him that any mission chosen by the CIA was too dangerous. He felt ashamed, and was glad he was standing in the dark where he couldn’t be seen.
The Lear jet had turned around on the runway and was ready for takeoff when Bourne and Mills hopped out of the jeep onto the lowered steps.
“Buckle up. I want to get off this runway before an NVA forward observer can get our range and call in some mortar fire on us. My boss would never forgive me if I lost his plane!”
“You have a boss?” Innocence covered Mills’s face. LeBlonde grinned a cockeyed smile and whispered something under his breath.
Lieutenant Bourne settled into the plush jetliner seat and turned his head toward the seat his sergeant was stretching out on. “This is the only way to travel around this country: air-conditioning, stereo, and a built-in bar.” It was obvious that the airplane belonged to a senior member of the intelligence community. And since the agency had a well-established reputation of taking care of its executives who produced successful programs, the luxury raised the odds somewhat that Paul had a chance to return from the mission alive.
A helicopter or a C-130 cargo plane would have taken a couple of hours flying to the northern city, but the jet made the flight in forty-two minutes.
When they landed, two army jeeps pulled up on the tarmac and parked close to the jet. The vehicles were painted a dull, flat black, with a Command and Control skull crest hand-painted in six-inch patterns below the windshields on the front panels. The two drivers were wearing neat tiger-striped fatigues with black jungle hats that had been modified by shortening the wide brims.
“Let’s move.” LeBlonde glanced down the runway to see if anyone was paying too much attention to their arrival. He deplaned carrying his leather briefcase, followed by his two bodyguards who struggled with the box containing the gold coins. Paul and Mills slipped into the rear seat of the first jeep, leaving the front seat vacant for LeBlonde.
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The route to the Command and Control North Headquarters was mostly along South Vietnam’s national Highway One, numbered the same as California’s Highway One. The similarity of both highways running north and south along the coast and both roads touching waters that formed the Pacific Ocean, coupled with the fact that Paul had recently traveled both routes made the drive seem uncanny to the point of sending a shiver down Paul’s spine. There was a high probability that some of the blue-green water touching the Vietnam coast had also touched the beach at Malibu.
“Hey, check out those guys!” Mills pointed to a team of U.S. Navy SEALS
dressed in wetsuits who were checking out the underwater supports of the main bridge leading out of Da Nang. Navy SEALS had a reputation for being a very tough group of men. U.S. Army Special Forces had teamed up many times with SEAL units to conduct clandestine operations. Paul had gone through HALO School with three SEALS and respected their grit, especially when they had to parachute from thirty thousand feet at night and then traverse a swamp as a final test for the difficult course. Lieutenant Bourne raised his hand as they passed the working SEALS. One of the black-clad divers looked up and waved back.
The jeeps left the road and pulled up in front of a main gate that was locked. Access to the secret compound was strictly controlled with high cyclone fences dividing the areas so that an outsider could go only where he had business. The gate guard made everyone dismount while a second guard, who was located inside a well-fortified machine gun bunker, called the headquarters. A third guard circled the jeeps carrying a long pole with a mirror attached to it. The device resembled the tool dentists used when they checked for cavi
ties. The guard stopped at each wheel well and checked carefully for hidden explosives.
“They do this all of the time?” Lieutenant Bourne looked over at his escort who had driven the jeep.
“Yes, sir. The local Vietcong are very good at sneaking up to a vehicle in heavy traffic and attaching satchel charges under the fenders. SOG vehicles are prime targets. Last month a Vietcong slipped a hand grenade into a jeep gas tank. The safety handle had been wrapped with plastic electrical tape. It took about twenty minutes for the plastic to dissolve in the gas and release the handle. The explosion killed everyone in the jeep, plus eight bystanders.” The soldier pointed at his jeep. “We have padlocks on all of our gas caps now.”
Paul nodded his head. He was very impressed with everything that he had seen so far, and made a mental note of the special Green Beret unit.
The two jeeps were joined by another black vehicle, which carried a captain from the headquarters who acted as their escort. The small convoy stopped in front of a small building that was located in the center of the camp 45
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and surrounded by a fifteen-foot barbed-wire fence and a half-dozen layers of concertina wire strung out at the base and along the top of the fence. A solid wooden fence eight feet tall was between the cyclone fence and the building, preventing any visual entry into the classified area. The only entrance was where the jeeps had stopped. Mister LeBlonde led the way past an armed gate guard and through a solid steel door.
“This will be your home for awhile. You’ll learn everything concerning your mission right here. The next time that you’ll leave this building will be for your insertion. I’ll be back on your last day of training to brief you on your final instructions. I recommend that you pay very close attention to your instructors—they’re some of the best in the business.” LeBlonde turned on his heels and left the room without waiting for a reply.
The special isolation building contained everything they needed for a comfortable stay. One of the drivers gave Paul and Mills a tour of the facility.
It was constructed out of reinforced cement, and had tile floors and air-conditioning. The floor plans included separate bedrooms for up to seven team members, kitchen, showers, operations room, equipment storage areas, and a very well-done recreation room with attached sun deck. Paul was again very impressed with the efficiency of the CCN people.
The next six days in the isolation building were well spent. Paul and Mills were shown how to operate some of the most modern military equipment in the world. They would be carrying a radio, smaller than a handheld walkie-talkie, which could send and receive messages over ten miles.
A special team arrived at the isolation building on the morning of the last day before they would be inserted, and dyed Paul’s hair a dark brown. Mills needed only a touch-up to darken the sun-bleached portions of his naturally brown hair. They had been issued authentic North Vietnamese Army uniforms that fit both of them perfectly. Paul was standing in front of a full-length mirror adjusting his leather belt when Mr. LeBlonde’s image appeared behind him in the mirror.
“Well, it looks like the pair of you are just about ready to go to work.”
LeBlonde adjusted his sunglasses. “One more minor preparation and you’ll be ready for tonight. Both of you go in the shower room and strip down. Mister Thaler here has one last touch for your make-up.” LeBlonde recognized the small man standing next to him by placing his arm over his shoulder.
Paul looked over at Mills and shrugged his shoulders in puzzlement as he started undressing on the shower bench. Paul tried reviewing everything they had gone over during the past six days and couldn’t think of anything they had missed. The instructors and briefers had been so thorough during the mission preparation that they had even included pills to constipate both of them during the mission phase, which was only supposed to last a few days.
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The small man entered the shower room carrying a leather suitcase and a wash basin. He placed both items on the bench and opened the suitcase. He removed a plastic package that contained a dark yellow powder and emptied a portion of the package into the basin. Thaler pushed his wire-rimmed glasses against his forehead using the back of his hand as he prepared a concoction of powder and warm water. He wore a pair of rubber gloves to prevent the dye from staining his hands.
“Gentlemen, please use these sponges and apply this special dye to your private areas. I’ll do the rest of your bodies because shading is very important, especially around your eyes.” The small man caught their quizzical looks and added, “You may feel that these precautions aren’t necessary, but we don’t leave anything to chance if we can help it. If you have to urinate we want everything to look oriental.”
“I realize you people are very thorough, but my height will give me away before the color of my cock will.” Paul grinned.
“There are tall North Vietnamese . . . Lieutenant.” Thaler’s voice reflected his contempt for the lieutenant’s comment. “Of course, if they get too close, then you’ll probably have to use these.” The little man reached back into his suitcase and held up two Hi-Standard .22-caliber pistols that had been equipped with silencers.
Mills took one of the handguns and rubbed the soft leather holster between his fingers. “Sir, if we don’t make it on this mission it’s because we screwed up. These people really have their shit together!”
Mister Thaler looked up at Mills without moving his head. “Thank you, Sergeant Mills.” Thaler finished applying the dye to Paul and stepped back to look at his completed work. The man nodded his head in self-satisfaction and then reached out and dabbed a little more dye against Paul’s right thigh.
“Before I leave, Lieutenant, Mister LeBlonde asked me to inform you that you’re to memorize all of the data in the instruction packets you received yesterday. You’ll only be allowed to take the coded maps with you on your mission.” Thaler repacked his suitcase with the precision of an artist. “Oh . . .
please lay out in the sun for an hour or so to ensure the dye dries completely before you dress.”
Lieutenant Bourne stepped in front of the mirror after Thaler had left the building. His first glance shocked him. He looked like a North Vietnamese.
Thaler had worked the dye around his eyes to give them a slanted effect and around his cheekbones to set them out from his face. The special dye had changed the tone of his skin to sun-tanned oriental.
Paul stepped out on the wooden patio deck behind the cement building and felt the heat against the soles of his bare feet. The deck was surrounded by an eight-foot wooden fence that provided privacy so that he could lay in 47
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the sun nude. He could hear the surf crashing against the beach on the other side of the fence and he felt very lonely and scared. Lying in the sun and thinking about Malibu and then the mission was too much for him. He sat up and reached for his CAR-15 submachine gun. Paul busied himself checking the working mechanism for wear and cleanliness.
Slowly his mind left the sound of the surf and locked in on preparing for the mission. He was well aware of the importance of the proper functioning of the first magazine of ammunition for his submachine gun. Paul removed each round and cleaned it by hand using a soft dry cloth. Sergeant Mills pulled up a chair next to Paul and dismantled his shotgun. Paul could see his hands shaking slightly when he pulled the weapon apart. He looked down at his own hands and saw the same slight shaking. They were both suffering from pre-mission jitters that he knew would go away once they were actually inserted in the area of operation. Right now, though, there wasn’t enough to keep them busy and there was too much time to think about what might go wrong.
The sun slipped behind the wooden fence, causing a long shadow to reach out and touch Paul’s bare toes. He stood and walked ov
er to the open door and stopped. The front door to the isolation building had opened and closed, signaling visitors.
“We’re back here!” Mills bent forward in his seat. He placed his assembled shotgun across his naked lap.
LeBlonde stepped around Paul onto the patio. The agent was wearing a well-tailored white walking suit. “Lieutenant, would you mind getting some clothes for you and the sergeant? I want to introduce you to the rest of your team.” LeBlonde beckoned with his hand and three Meo tribesmen stepped forward onto the patio from the main building corridor. Paul stepped around them and went into the supply ready room, where he removed a pair of pants for him and Mills. He returned to the group in a matter of seconds and threw his partner a pair of the folded NVA trousers.
LeBlonde had waited until Paul had returned before talking. “All of these men speak excellent English, French, and dialects of North Vietnamese. They will be going with you during your insertion and will stay with you for the execution of your mission. Mauk will be your pointman and will be the spokesman for your team if you should encounter any NVA trail watchers.” LeBlonde placed his hand on the next man’s shoulder. “Tru is an expert in silent killing . . .
He’ll remove the trail watchers for you. Pra-Teup is your stay-behind man in the event you have to run. He was raised in the area that you’re going into and can easily walk himself out.” LeBlonde smiled. “All of these men have been briefed on the mission and will help you carry in the gold coins to the warlords.”
“I was wondering how we were going to get the loot there and the opium back here,” Paul spoke to LeBlonde with Mills nodding his head in agreement.
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LeBlonde reached into a cardboard box he had been holding under his right arm and removed two cans that resembled spray paint containers. “These contain a chemical solution that will take care of the opium base for you so that you won’t have to carry it out.” LeBlonde flipped a can to both Americans. “The compound inside those cans has been blended back in our Stateside lab, and will react to the acid base of the opium and destroy the drug. I want you to use this test kit . . .”
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